If one man could embody all that is vile in human nature; if one man could represent the cumulative deprivations of a selfish, materialistic society and if one man could also play the microcosm to the corporate world of control and domination, that man would be Chub.
Chub is not a statesman nor a politician, nor does he mingle with executives of the Fortune 500. He’s nobody really. Spawned from post-war industrial Germany, he now sells real estate in Canada; more than that though, he is a self-proclaimed master of deception and confidence artistry. He is a con-man, a forger, a swindler, a trickster, a fraudster, he is a ***ster of the very worst kind.
Despite his tough exterior though, Chub is subject to a weakness, a quirk of human nature that grips the petty thief as well as the time-hardened criminal, he needs to tell his tale. We must all confess before we die. He cares not one Athenian Iota what people say about him, he’s heard it all before, but time is running out for Chub as he shuffles closer to the crumbling precipice of mortality. Like an angry boil on the back of the neck, his life of lies and ruthlessness must be lanced. This confession is as putrid as the curd of the boil and you will probably hate every single fibre of him. I cannot say I blame you.
However, as the last drops of ooze are wiped away from the exhausted wound, with a final sickening twist, you may actually believe that what he says makes perfect sense after all.